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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28579953">What Remains</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeStoryteller/pseuds/HopeStoryteller'>HopeStoryteller</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Gleefully Voicing This Eulogy [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hollow Knight (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death Fix, Depression, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Character Death, Pre-Relationship, Read at Your Own Risk, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, this is a heavy one lads n lasses n nonbinary chads</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:26:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,154</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28579953</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeStoryteller/pseuds/HopeStoryteller</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Quirrel is so, so tired. He just wants it to end. Maybe, at last, he can finally rest. His final task is complete. There is nothing anyone else needs him for. And besides, is there anything left of Quirrel, now? What is left, when the scholar and the wanderer are scooped out and discarded? What is there left to do, except end it all?</p><p>(Fortunately for him, someone else strongly disagrees.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Monomon the Teacher &amp; Quirrel (Hollow Knight), Quirrel/Tiso (Hollow Knight), The Knight &amp; Quirrel (Hollow Knight)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Gleefully Voicing This Eulogy [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2028826</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>105</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>What Remains</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He is tired.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is so, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> tired. His legs feel like gravity pulls harder on them, which is logically impossible but still is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> effective deterrent to getting up anytime soon. Particularly if he doesn’t really </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to get up anytime soon. He has nowhere to go, nowhere to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All there is now is the bug who, in a better time, called himself Quirrel. In another life, a second or even a third, he would have borne that name—and the nail that came with it—with pride.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now… now, he’s just tired. His memories of Hallownest return, slowly but steadily, as he thinks of them. He still can’t help but feel that they cannot be his, that cannot be </span>
  <em>
    <span>him.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The bright-eyed young assistant scampering between the acid tubes to retrieve one record or another simply isn’t him. The assistant’s name was Quirrel, and his name happens to be Quirrel, and they really do not share much beyond that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The assistant was a pillbug too? So what. Pillbugs aren’t exactly uncommon in Hallownest, or even in what little is left of it. He just happens to be the one uninfected one he’s seen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The assistant had a deep desire to learn new things, just like him? Well, clearly all </span>
  <em>
    <span>learning new things</span>
  </em>
  <span> did was remind him of what once was, and what never would be again. He’s tired of learning, too. Tired of exploring, of searching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He found what he was looking for, after all. It had been everything he’d ever dreamed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Within the frame of memory, it was his worst nightmare. Or perhaps, more accurately, the assistant’s worst nightmare. It was the assistant that agreed to leave with Monomon’s mask, the assistant that slipped out as the furor over the Infection settled down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The assistant died somewhere in the wastelands beyond Hallownest, and the wanderer was born. The wanderer, conversely, became weaker and weaker as he explored more and more of Hallownest, until finally passing away with Monomon. Neither the assistant nor the wanderer are left, now. So who is? Is there </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> left?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All there is left now is Quirrel. And all Quirrel is now is a dead bug walking, an empty shell of what he previously was. He is, in truth, no more a bug than the husks that wander Hallownest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps they are more alive than him. At least </span>
  <em>
    <span>they</span>
  </em>
  <span> have thoughts, feelings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel, on the other claw, is </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He cannot care any longer, for he no longer has the energy to do that. Does he even have the energy to stand?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He supposes he’ll have to, if he wants it to end. He doesn’t have to go far. Just a few, short steps, and then… nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe nothing will hurt less. It can’t possibly hurt </span>
  <em>
    <span>more.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>...can it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, it can’t. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Something</span>
  </em>
  <span> is going to hurt more than nothing, simply by definition. And Quirrel is </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired</span>
  </em>
  <span> of hurting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds the strength somewhere within him to get unsteadily to his feet, then plants his nail in the shoreline. Someone will be able to use it. Perhaps his little friend, if they ever considered him one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Will they miss him, he wonders? He suspects not, not after recalling what details he knew of the Vessel project and lining them up in his mind. They knew of his part in their sibling’s sealing. They will not miss him.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel takes one shaky step, and then another. The third brings him to the edge of the lake’s waters. He peers over the edge. His own mask stares back at him, reflected in pristine blue waters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A part of him hates that his actions will sully them, if only for a short time. The rest of him just wishes for it to be over. He takes another, smaller step, and then yet another, bringing him to the edge. His feet hang over the edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he has to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span> is fall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Would Monomon have wanted this?)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Of course she wouldn’t have. But her theoretical opinion is irrelevant on two fronts: she is already dead, and she only knew the assistant. Never the wanderer. Never what was left over, after the assistant and the wanderer were carved away.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lost in his thoughts, he does not hear footsteps behind him. Nor does he hear a vaguely familiar voice raised in greeting—nor in panic, when he lets himself fall. All he hears is a dull roaring in his mind, a roaring that promises to finally cease when he hits the water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t. Not when he hits the </span>
  <em>
    <span>water,</span>
  </em>
  <span> in any case—but when his head connects altogether too quickly with the much shallower lakebed than it appeared. Were he still capable of thought, he would be briefly fascinated by that phenomenon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he isn’t, for he is thinking of nothing at all. Not when his unconscious body starts to sink—and not when strong arms hook under his and hoist him back up.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first thing Quirrel does, upon returning to awareness, is push himself up with his arms, eyes wide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The second thing Quirrel does, upon blinking back to consciousness, is turn over and empty the contents of his stomach onto the lakeshore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The third thing Quirrel does, upon waking up from something he had no intention of waking up from, is realize this fact. Idly, he looks upon his own spit-up, and wishes he hadn’t marred the shore like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> you fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>try</span>
  </em>
  <span> to stand up,” says someone beside him, “you’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> gone and concussed yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel does not attempt to stand. Nor does he look at the voice. Instead, he replies, “That was not my intention.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not your—</span>
  <em>
    <span>not your</span>
  </em>
  <span>—do you take me for a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fool?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> The voice, presumably another bug, pauses to consider this. “Okay, in one sense of the word I am, but that’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> the sense we’re talking about here! You—do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>realize</span>
  </em>
  <span> what you were doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am aware.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, okay, </span>
  <em>
    <span>great.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’ve got a </span>
  <em>
    <span>self-aware</span>
  </em>
  <span> suicidal bug on my claws. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You,</span>
  </em>
  <span> look at me. I didn’t fish you out of there just for you to fall right back in!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t fall,” Quirrel replies in a monotone. “I jumped.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could have launched yourself off the top of Crystal Peak for all I care. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Look. At. Me.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>At last, Quirrel does. He’s greeted by the visage of a hooded ant—yes, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> briefly seen this bug before, during a brief stag-assisted return to Dirtmouth for supplies. Then, he had been arguing with the shopkeeper over the cost of supplies before finally leaving in a huff, shoving past Quirrel as he went. Now, the ant looks concerned. Startlingly so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(He shouldn’t bother.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me,” the ant continues furiously, “but guess what? You happen to be one of the… what, ten bugs that hasn’t succumbed to this fucked-up orange plague? Lucky you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is called the Infection,” Quirrel replies, “and </span>
  <em>
    <span>luck</span>
  </em>
  <span> had nothing to do with it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His teacher’s mask, on the other claw, </span>
  <em>
    <span>did.</span>
  </em>
  <span> One last gift from the mentor more of a parent to him than his real ones had ever been. Really, it was wasted on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Infection, schminfection.” The ant waves a claw carelessly. “Point is: what in the name of the Void </span>
  <em>
    <span>itself</span>
  </em>
  <span> do you think you’re doing? Even if you can’t muster up some </span>
  <em>
    <span>other</span>
  </em>
  <span> reason to live—and a nice bug like you? </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’d</span>
  </em>
  <span> be missed—it’s your goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>responsibility</span>
  </em>
  <span> to stick around and help rebuild.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that meant to convince me?” Quirrel stands, ignoring the way the world shudders behind his eyes. “Is </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> meant to convince me that I shouldn’t throw my life away? If that’s your best attempt, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>pitiful.</span>
  </em>
  <span> All I am is another wanderer who met his end down in these hallowed ruins. There is no one </span>
  <em>
    <span>left</span>
  </em>
  <span> to miss me. As for </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> life, what is left of it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine,</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do with whatever I choose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ant blinks. “Is it yours?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel snorts. “There is so little of the life I once led remaining that the question is a moot point.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So it’s not. You’re killing yourself and you can’t even do it on your own terms.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t believe it matters </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span> it was accomplished, so long as it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> accomplished.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ant looks rather unhappy about that. He doesn’t stand up as well, but the way he’s sitting is alert, taut like a string of silk. He can move fast, perhaps faster than Quirrel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel would rather not have to test that. So, somehow, he has to convince him to leave. The odds of that are unlikely at this point, but he has to try, doesn’t he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sit down,” the ant says. And then adds, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Please.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel does so, reluctantly. The cave stops spinning, unsurprisingly. “If you insist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>insisting.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> The ant begins to reach out to him, then thinks better of it. His claws find the shield on the ground next to him instead. He sets it on his lap, holds it there. “What’s your name? You’ve got one of those, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course</span>
  </em>
  <span> I do."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, what is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quirrel.” Even his own </span>
  <em>
    <span>name</span>
  </em>
  <span> coming out of his mouth sounds foreign, and he laughs unhappily at the realization, prompting an even more confused and concerned look from the ant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t feel like mine anymore,” he explains further. The confusion fades, but the concern only intensifies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then there’s nothing stopping you from changing it,” the ant points out. “Head back up to that town on the surface, tell everyone you changed your name to… I don’t know, Squirrel!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that, Quirrel snickers—for the first time in a while out of true mirth. “I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> changing my name to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Squirrel.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never said you had to. Just giving you ideas.” The ant grins. Quirrel realizes, for the first time, that </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> not wearing a mask. “I’m Tiso.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but given the circumstances…” Quirrel looks away, and sighs. “That being said, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> seen you before. Throwing a fit over that fly’s prices up in Dirtmouth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He overprices,” Tiso says firmly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s the </span>
  <em>
    <span>only vendor in Dirtmouth.</span>
  </em>
  <span> If you wish to keep him from overcharging, you would first need to keep him from having a monopoly on everything but claw-drawn maps and accessories.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost</span>
  </em>
  <span> tempted. Though running a store sounds exhausting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And fighting in the Colosseum of Fools isn’t?” Still looking away, Quirrel does not notice that Tiso has frozen in place. “That </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> your ultimate goal, was it not? How did it go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It went…” Tiso grimaces. One hand leaves his shield and pulls out something tucked in his hood. He holds it, staring at it. “Okay, you want to know why I can’t just let you die?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel looks over then. He sees Tiso holding a little white flower. Wilted, and missing some of the petals, but still largely intact. It would not be fit to give as a gift, but for Tiso’s purposes, he supposes it would do fine. Perhaps as a good luck charm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, you didn’t drag me out of there out of the goodness of your heart?” Quirrel quips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What heart?” Now it is Tiso’s turn to laugh uncomfortably. “The reason is </span>
  <em>
    <span>far</span>
  </em>
  <span> less noble than you’d think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose,” Quirrel says carefully, slowly, “that it is too much to think you saw so much senseless death within the colosseum that you swore off violence entirely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? </span>
  <em>
    <span>No!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Tiso pauses. “Although you aren’t as far off as you might think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With an attitude like that, I’m surprised they let you leave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, they didn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tiso shifts his position, revealing a nasty, barely-healed crack on his carapace. That’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>going</span>
  </em>
  <span> to scar—and given how bad it must have been, Quirrel is grudgingly impressed that Tiso lasted long enough for it to heal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s three trials.” He holds up three claws as he continues, “The Trial of the Warrior, </span>
  <em>
    <span>easy,</span>
  </em>
  <span> the Trial of the Conqueror, bit harder, and the Trial of the Fool, which is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>ridiculous</span>
  </em>
  <span> increase in difficulty for a much poorer reward. I beat the first two in one fell swoop and, as soon as I could, went directly into the third.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel squints behind his mask. “I don’t like where this is going.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Made it about halfway. Didn’t look up. Got a Brooding Mawlek dropped on me and woke up on the cliffs below—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> lucky to have survived.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I didn’t. I woke up standing above my own body. Went back up to the Colosseum, because what the fuck </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> was I supposed to do, and watched a bunch of other idiots take on the same damn trial for a while. You know, you can stop staring.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry.” Quirrel hadn’t realized he was staring. “It’s merely… you don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>look</span>
  </em>
  <span> dead. And you do not have the… usual attributes of someone being reanimated by the Infection.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tiso spins the flower idly. “Eventually I woke up again. Don’t have any fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>idea</span>
  </em>
  <span> what yanked me back, but this flower was new. So I kept it. And then I didn’t really have anything better to do, so I headed back up to the Colosseum.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Why?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Few reasons. One, the look on the receptionist’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>face</span>
  </em>
  <span> was </span>
  <em>
    <span>glorious.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Two, I knew exactly what was coming in that final trial now, and I knew I could win… but I’ll admit the aerial part </span>
  <em>
    <span>sucked.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Three, what was I gonna do, </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> avenge my own death?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But what if you </span>
  <em>
    <span>died?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quirrel counters, eyes even wider. “Or… died </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span> I suppose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Tiso says. “And hey. Maybe I did actually die, or maybe I was on one </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> of a pain-induced trip and never actually did, but I’m not dead now. And I’m going to keep making the most of it, starting with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tiso twirls the flower in his grasp and jabs it, stem-first, into Quirrel’s chest. He clearly means for him to take it. Quirrel does not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will admit your tale is fascinating,” Quirrel says after a time, “but I fail to see the relevance here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tiso doesn’t take back the flower. “Why do you want to kill yourself? Why, specifically, kill </span>
  <em>
    <span>yourself,</span>
  </em>
  <span> when there’s plenty of other bugs in this kingdom who’d happily do it for you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it not obvious?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is. But I don’t want to be wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel sighs. “It would hurt more, before I died. I just want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop</span>
  </em>
  <span> hurting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to—” Tiso blinks once, twice, then </span>
  <em>
    <span>laughs.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would think that </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> of all bugs wouldn’t find that funny.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t,” Tiso says. “What’s funny is how wrong you are. Dying doesn’t stop you from hurting. It just gets worse. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eventually</span>
  </em>
  <span> it gets to a manageable level—for me, anyway—but somehow I doubt you have my pain tolerance, </span>
  <em>
    <span>or</span>
  </em>
  <span> a post-death goal to focus on and block it out with. Do you get what I’m saying? It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not going to help.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>With that one word, that one, simple word, Quirrel’s resolve fully crumbles. It had already been fracturing, despite his best efforts, at Tiso’s words. Now, it’s gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, he curls up into a ball, tucking his face into his arms. His shoulders shake. The dam finally bursts, and Quirrel </span>
  <em>
    <span>sobs.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He’s dimly aware of Tiso setting the flower down gingerly, then scooting around and patting his back awkwardly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this okay?” The ant asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“N-no,” Quirrel chokes out between sobs. Tiso stiffens, then withdraws his claws. “No, not… n-not you. You’re… fine. Please don’t leave me too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A noise of understanding from the ant then. The claw returns, then, and a comforting weight around his shell. It takes him longer to realize it’s Tiso’s entire arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, I may not know you very well, but…” Tiso swallows. “I’d like to. And even if no one else would miss you, I would.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel sniffles, and hates himself for it. Dryly, he says, “Didn’t take you for the sentimental type.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Tiso says sharply. “I just don’t see the need for any more death. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Especially</span>
  </em>
  <span> not the self-inflicted kind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let it out,” says Tiso. “Gods know I’m not going anywhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Quirrel replies weakly. He uncurls a bit, enough that he can properly </span>
  <em>
    <span>sit</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the ground again. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t mention it. No, seriously, </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t.</span>
  </em>
  <span> But I think you should have this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tiso’s offering him the flower again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel takes it, looks it over with the curious eye of a researcher. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’ve seen these before, somewhere,” he murmurs to himself. “But I cannot recall </span>
  <em>
    <span>where,</span>
  </em>
  <span> nor their scientific name. Their common name… I believe this is a Delicate Flower.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh.” Tiso shuffles himself into a cross-legged sitting position opposite him. It does not escape Quirrel’s notice that he is between him and the lake. “I understood about a quarter of that nerdy nerd-talk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shifts his gaze to Tiso then, genuinely amused. “Nerdy nerd-talk?” He echoes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nerd.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Tiso smiles. “Know anything else about it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Possibly.” Quirrel hums to himself. “I know that they are not called </span>
  <em>
    <span>delicate</span>
  </em>
  <span> without reason. No matter what lengths one goes to protecting their blooms, they </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> be destroyed should the bearer so much as jostle them too much. I think… it was an old test of bravery and skill, back in the glory days of Hallownest, to smuggle one from the grove where it grew to… hmm. I can’t seem to recall that part.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t remember where they grow?” Tiso sounds a little disappointed at that. Of course he does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel laughs, and nods. “My apologies. Perhaps it will come to me sooner or later. What I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> recall is that they are imbued with a powerful, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>volatile,</span>
  </em>
  <span> magic. This one’s appears to be completely spent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh. You think it </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> bring me back from the dead?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not impossible, though in our tests—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel freezes. A memory returns, unbidden. Not a fragment of a memory, like most, but a </span>
  <em>
    <span>full</span>
  </em>
  <span> memory. Monomon had been pursuing the Delicate Flower research still, even after all other research had ceased in preparation for her becoming a Dreamer. There were many late nights spent examining flowers, gingerly poking and prodding the soft white petals. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But what Quirrel recalls </span>
  <em>
    <span>now…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Monomon! Madam, we have a serious problem.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Quirrel, whatever it is can wait. I’m in the middle of—”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I know, Madam, I know.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You only call me ‘Madam’ when it truly is serious. Whatever is the matter?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Their entire stock of Delicate Flowers had vanished. Three of them had disappeared a day before—few enough that Quirrel had initially chalked it up as a counting error, or someone (Monomon) destroying more than she wrote up and being too embarrassed to list the true amount.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But their </span>
  <em>
    <span>entire stock?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh, Quirrel. Did they not tell you?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Not tell me what?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“The King himself has put an end to that branch of research. A pity—I could have learned so much more from them, but I suppose I do have what I need.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She had sounded more than a little bitter, and for good reason. The king </span>
  <em>
    <span>already</span>
  </em>
  <span> had her living on borrowed time. The least he could do was allow her to pursue her life’s work until the end.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Madam?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh, think nothing of it. I’ve discovered the source of their power. I will have all the time in the world to speculate further over their mysteries once I am… oh, actually, there was something else I wished to discuss with you. Let me be clear: not a word of this is to leave this room, no matter who asks you. Not to me, until the time comes, and especially not to the king.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I-I understand, Madam, but what…”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quirrel? You still here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel blinks. He’s not in the Archives, about to be informed of what, in retrospect, was undoubtedly how he obtained Monomon’s mask. He’s seated on the shores of Blue Lake, across from a rather impulsive and brash yet impossibly kind warrior. Tiso looks vaguely concerned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Quirrel says, “I suppose I am. I just… remembered something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. You have amnesia or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Amnesia,</span>
  </em>
  <span> by definition, is natural and not magically induced. He strongly suspects his was not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh.” The ant blinks. “That’s rough, buddy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lacking any knowledge of how to properly respond, Quirrel settles for a nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was it anything important?” Tiso asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a long moment, Quirrel considers this. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> go back to the Archives, throw himself into looking for Monomon’s last research notes, in pursuit of a past that died a long time ago. Or… he could move on, and look to the future instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” says Quirrel, “but not anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What Monomon would have wanted doesn’t matter anymore. It’s time to live in the present, for once. Quirrel thinks he’d like that. So, he stands—his head no longer spins or shakes—and extends a claw to Tiso. His other holds the flower close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you say to an adventure?” Quirrel asks. “I can’t promise where we’ll find ourselves, but this is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>big</span>
  </em>
  <span> kingdom, and there are many cracks and crevices I have yet to explore. We could find where the flowers grow, or where the rain in the city below us goes, or even what causes the ashfall in the cliffs to the east.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We could,” Tiso agrees. He takes the offered claw, and Quirrel pulls him to his feet. “I say </span>
  <em>
    <span>absolutely.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It’s high time I viewed a place through a lens that wasn’t that of searching for the greatest challenges it had to offer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel nods an agreement. “And it’s high time I explored with an intent to </span>
  <em>
    <span>understand,</span>
  </em>
  <span> not merely </span>
  <em>
    <span>witness.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The Resting Grounds are a good first destination, don’t you think?”</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Harnessing the power of a long-dormant mining golem, a little warrior shoots from the western shore of the lake to the eastern. They catch sight of something on the eastern and jolt to a sudden stop. They stare for a long moment, then walk up to the edge and peer down into the clear blue waters—yet not so clear, for they cannot see the bottom, nor the bug who must lie there now. Black dribbles down their mask from their eyeholes until they wipe it away, shuddering. They bow their head briefly, then shoot back across the lake to the western shore.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(They return, a short time later, bearing a little white flower. They lay it on the ground next to the nail, then leave, once again, the way they came.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(They stumble to a stop on the opposite shoreline, then turn one final time for one last goodbye. Black droplets stain the ground as they bow their head, then turn and run.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(They wish they could save one of their friends. Just </span>
  <em>
    <span>one.</span>
  </em>
  <span>)</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t believe,” Tiso laughs, “that you </span>
  <em>
    <span>left your nail here.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you blame me?” Quirrel replies. “I was, perhaps, a little bit shaken. Besides, I didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> it until we ran into those husks, and you made short work of them with that shield of yours!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, yeah, of course.” Tiso puffs up with pride. “What did you… expect…” He trails off as he sees the nail—or more importantly, what’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>next</span>
  </em>
  <span> to the nail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Quirrel says eloquently. “That’s… new. I don’t suppose you put that there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tiso snorts. “I haven’t left you alone for the last two hours. When would I have?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“True.” He kneels beside the flower, picks it up cautiously, reverently. “I should find somewhere safer to keep this. It still possesses its power—it could be useful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For </span>
  <em>
    <span>what?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel gives him a look. “More than you realize.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, okay, I didn’t realize I was traveling with a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>florist.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Tiso rolls his eyes. “Just be careful and you won’t get hit. Not that hard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you insist.” Quirrel takes up his nail as well, then freezes. “I know where to take this.”</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>(The little warrior isn’t exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>keen</span>
  </em>
  <span> on filling out the hunter’s journal, but they </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> running out of other things to do before challenging their sibling. And they know—they </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>—that neither of them will emerge alive from that fight.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(There has to be another way. And if there is one, they’ll find it. For everyone they’ve lost… and everyone they haven’t lost yet. In the meantime, it’s time to go Ooma hunting and hope their reflexes are good enough not to be blown up </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> much.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(They sprint past the Archives, taking a shortcut—then freeze, and retrace their steps. They thought they saw something. They thought they saw… no, it was nothing. They turn and continue on their quest.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Behind them, a little white flower tucked into the gate sways in an invisible breeze. It’s easy to miss, when it’s not moving.)</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I should really get back to my schoolwork now, oops. imma do that now. this was not supposed to be this long, but it's fine really, it stayed a oneshot that's the important part.</p><p>and now y'all know what these two are doing in Dirtmouth in <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27975036/chapters/68517800">A Light in the Dark</a>. it's a shame Ghost hasn't been up there in ages. got to finish that hunter's journal and make some serious attempts at Godhome, after all...</p></blockquote></div></div>
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